...was/is today. What's you're tipple?
I'm a Yeats man. The following are those which stood out for me:
O DO NOT LOVE TOO LONG
Sweetheart, do not love too long:
I loved long and long,
And grew to be out of fashion
Like an old song.
All through the years of our youth
Neither could have known
Their own thought from the other's,
We were so much at one.
But O, in a minute she changed--
O do not love too long,
Or you will grow out of fashion
Like an old song.
WHEN YOU ARE OLD
When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
He Wishes for the Clothes of Heaven
Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
EASTER 1916
I HAVE met them at close of day
Coming with vivid faces
From counter or desk among grey
Eighteenth-century houses.
I have passed with a nod of the head
Or polite meaningless words,
Or have lingered awhile and said
Polite meaningless words,
And thought before I had done
Of a mocking tale or a gibe
To please a companion
Around the fire at the club,
Being certain that they and I
But lived where motley is worn:
All changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
That woman's days were spent
In ignorant good-will,
Her nights in argument
Until her voice grew shrill.
What voice more sweet than hers
When, young and beautiful,
She rode to harriers?
This man had kept a school
And rode our winged horse;
This other his helper and friend
Was coming into his force;
He might have won fame in the end,
So sensitive his nature seemed,
So daring and sweet his thought.
This other man I had dreamed
A drunken, vainglorious lout.
He had done most bitter wrong
To some who are near my heart,
Yet I number him in the song;
He, too, has resigned his part
In the casual comedy;
He, too, has been changed in his turn,
Transformed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
Hearts with one purpose alone
Through summer and winter seem
Enchanted to a stone
To trouble the living stream.
The horse that comes from the road.
The rider, the birds that range
From cloud to tumbling cloud,
Minute by minute they change;
A shadow of cloud on the stream
Changes minute by minute;
A horse-hoof slides on the brim,
And a horse plashes within it;
The long-legged moor-hens dive,
And hens to moor-cocks call;
Minute by minute they live:
The stone's in the midst of all.
Too long a sacrifice
Can make a stone of the heart.
O when may it suffice?
That is Heaven's part, our part
To murmur name upon name,
As a mother names her child
When sleep at last has come
On limbs that had run wild.
What is it but nightfall?
No, no, not night but death;
Was it needless death after all?
For England may keep faith
For all that is done and said.
We know their dream; enough
To know they dreamed and are dead;
And what if excess of love
Bewildered them till they died?
I write it out in a verse -
MacDonagh and MacBride
And Connolly and Pearse
Now and in time to be,
Wherever green is worn,
Are changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
For FoSB:
'The Workmans Friend'
When things go wrong and will not come right,
Though you do the best you can,
When life looks black as the hour of night -
A PINT OF PLAIN IS YOUR ONLY MAN.
When money's tight and hard to get
And your horse has also ran,
When all you have is a heap of debt -
A PINT OF PLAIN IS YOUR ONLY MAN.
When health is bad and your heart feels strange,
And your face is pale and wan,
When doctors say you need a change,
A PINT OF PLAIN IS YOUR ONLY MAN.
When food is scarce and your larder bare
And no rashers grease your pan,
When hunger grows as your meals are rare -
A PINT OF PLAIN IS YOUR ONLY MAN.
In time of trouble and lousey strife,
You have still got a darlint plan
You still can turn to a brighter life -
A PINT OF PLAIN IS YOUR ONLY MAN.
Heaney is hard to whack. Death of a Naturalist in particular. Liked some John Donne and George Herbert when I was at school.
I like Yeats as well
The Lake Isle of Innisfree would be my favourite
I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honeybee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a-glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wings.
I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear the water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray,
I hear it in the deep heart's core
and also
Under Ben Bulben
Under bare Ben Bulben's head
In Drumcliff churchyard Yeats is laid.
An ancestor was rector there
Long years ago, a church stands near,
By the road an ancient cross.
No marble, no conventional phrase;
On limestone quarried near the spot
By his command these words are cut:
Cast a cold eye
On life, on death.
Horseman, pass by!
Quote from: Tony Baloney on October 08, 2009, 09:05:28 PM
Heaney is hard to whack. Death of a Naturalist in particular. Liked some John Donne and George Herbert when I was at school.
Digging is my favourite of his. I met him recently, he struck me as a very humble, gentle, quiet man with a lot to say about life
Quote from: ardmhachaabu on October 08, 2009, 09:07:31 PM
Quote from: Tony Baloney on October 08, 2009, 09:05:28 PM
Heaney is hard to whack. Death of a Naturalist in particular. Liked some John Donne and George Herbert when I was at school.
Digging is my favourite of his. I met him recently, he struck me as a very humble, gentle, quiet man with a lot to say about life
Between my finger and my thumb... Probably my favourite too.
Sláinte Shane, on the money there:
(http://www.irishcultureandcustoms.com/Poetry/3Pics/FlannOB.jpg)
There's something about this one though:
DULCE ET DECORUM EST
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.
Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime . . .
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
Pro patria mori
Wilfred Owen
QuoteI will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
I will arise and go now, and go and feed the ducks,
and whether they are there or not, I couldn't give two fooks.
(Someone in Ballinakill in Laois after a feed of drink )
FoSB on the subject of war poetry, another favourite of mine from Yeats, an Irish Airman foresees his death
I know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above;
Those that I fight I do not hate,
Those that I guard I do not love;
My country is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan's poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.
More Yeats for me
WHERE dips the rocky highland
Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water rats;
There we've hid our faery vats,
Full of berrys
And of reddest stolen cherries.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand.
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.
Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim gray sands with light,
Far off by furthest Rosses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances
Mingling hands and mingling glances
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap
And chase the frothy bubbles,
While the world is full of troubles
And anxious in its sleep.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.
Where the wandering water gushes
From the hills above Glen-Car,
In pools among the rushes
That scarce could bathe a star,
We seek for slumbering trout
And whispering in their ears
Give them unquiet dreams;
Leaning softly out
From ferns that drop their tears
Over the young streams.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.
Away with us he's going,
The solemn-eyed -
He'll hear no more the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hillside
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace into his breast,
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal chest
For he comes the human child
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand
From a world more full of weeping than he can understand
And a sonnet from south Derry's finest.
The pockets of our greatcoats full of barley -
No kitchens on the run, no striking camp -
We moved quick and sudden in our own country
The priest lay behind ditches with the tr**p.
A people, hardly marching - on the hike -
We found new tactics happening each day:
We'd cut through reins and rider with the pike
And stampede cattle into infantry,
Then retreat through hedges where cavalry must be thrown.
Until, on Vinegar Hill, the fatal conclave.
Terraced thousands died, shaking scythes at cannon.
The hillside blushed, soaked in our broken wave.
They buried us without shroud or coffin
And in August the barley grew up out of the grave.
Vale of Avoca.
Where The Three Waters Meet, by Thomas Moore.
There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet
As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet
Oh the last rays of feeling and life must depart
Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart
Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart.
And on a piece of a slate nailed to a tree above the plaque for Mr. Moore some poor ould kn**ker wrote:
I have a hole in my sock, and no shoes on my feet,
And I don't give a fook where the three waters meet.
(Poor old Laois man never gets any credit)
A couple from Eva Gore-Booth
The Little Waves Of Breffny
The grand road from the mountain goes shining to the sea,
And there is traffic in it and many a horse and cart,
But the little roads of Cloonagh are dearer far to me,
And the little roads of Cloonagh go rambling through my heart.
A great storm from the ocean goes shouting o'er the hill,
And there is glory in it and terror on the wind,
But the haunted air of twilight is very strange and still,
And the little winds of twilight are dearer to my mind.
The great waves of the Atlantic sweep storming on their way,
Shining green and silver with the hidden herring shoal,
But the Little Waves of Breffny have drenched my heart in spray,
And the Little Waves of Breffny go stumbling through my soul.
Comrades, To Con
The peaceful night that round me flows,
Breaks through your iron prison doors,
Free through the world your spirit goes,
Forbidden hands are clasping yours.
The wind is our confederate
The night has left the doors ajar;
We meet beyond earth's barred gate,
Where all the world's wild rebels are.
Quote from: Bud Wiser on October 08, 2009, 09:43:05 PM
Vale of Avoca.
Was just going to post that very one Bud, poor oul Tom Moore doesn't get half the credit he deserves either, though heading off to the highest echelons of English society did himself no favours, fecking Kerrymen eh? ;)
Cheers ardmhachaabu, hadn't seen that one before.
'Mid Term Break' by Seamus Heaney is one of my favourites.
A four foot box,
A foot for every year.
THE TIGER
Tiger, Tiger, burning bright
In the forest of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?
And what shoulder and what art
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And, when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand and what dread feet?
What the hammer? What the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? What dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears,
And water'd heaven with their tears,
Did He smile His work to see?
Did He who made the lamb make thee?
Tiger, Tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
William Blake
SUICIDE IN THE TRENCHES
I knew a simple soldier boy
Who grinned at life in empty joy,
Slept soundly through the lonesome dark,
And whistled early with the lark.
In winter trenches, cowed and glum,
With crumps and lice and lack of rum,
He put a bullet through his brain.
No one spoke of him again.
You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye
Who cheer when soldier lads march by,
Sneak home and pray you'll never know
The hell where youth and laughter go.
Siegfried Sassoon
The Wayfarer
The beauty of the world hath made me sad,
This beauty that will pass;
Sometimes my heart hath shaken with great joy
To see a leaping squirrel in a tree,
Or a red lady-bird upon a stalk,
Or little rabbits in a field at evening,
Lit by a slanting sun,
Or some green hill where shadows drifted by
Some quiet hill where mountainy man hath sown
And soon would reap; near to the gate of Heaven;
Or children with bare feet upon the sands
Of some ebbed sea, or playing on the streets
Of little towns in Connacht,
Things young and happy.
And then my heart hath told me:
These will pass,
Will pass and change, will die and be no more,
Things bright and green, things young and happy;
And I have gone upon my way
Sorrowful.
Pádraig Pearse
does any of ye know of good recitations.... and post them up!
TS Eliot got the nod in a bbc poll.
Quote from: Tony Baloney on October 08, 2009, 11:20:48 PM
TS Eliot got the nod in a bbc poll.
Hmmm... BBC poll --> Sun Readers' poll + 1
William Blake's 'enjoy the moment' poem...
Eternity
He who binds to himself a joy
Does the winged life destroy;
But he who kisses the joy as it flies
Lives in eternity's sun rise.
The only poem I remember from my school years.........
There was a young maid from Madrid
Who said she'd never been rid
Then came an Italian
With balls like a Stallion
And rode her like Billy the Kid
But then in a school that had the Bomber Liston and Jack O'Connor on their staff we weren't really there for the Poetry lessons :P
Jees! Mike,
Get on yer bike,
away to thine bed,
nae defile this prentious thread,
... like
on yonder field,
there stood a cow,
it must have moved,
for it's not there now.
Little fly upon the wall,
have you got no friends at all?
no mammy-no daddy...
bastard
Uh oh! The Sun-ditty brigade have arrived! :P
oh this is a poetry thread,
where poems can be read,
from wannabes and dead dudes,
boring men to prudes
oh this is a poetry thread!
christ i'm bored!
...but is it verse...
or something worse?
a stab at higher art
from the heart
or only phoney? ???
I blame the Kerry man for following up Blake with pure Kerry doggerel.
But sure, what the fcuk, good to see you're alive KM ;D
National Poetry Day is over Fear, back to the muck... :-\
Swear to God lads and lasses, been extremely unwell this last couple of days and haven't read a paper nor seen the news. What national poetry day is this? Throw a bit of light someone please.
Think I'll start a Limerick thread
Quote from: dowling on October 09, 2009, 01:06:21 AM
Swear to God lads and lasses, been extremely unwell this last couple of days and haven't read a paper nor seen the news. What national poetry day is this? Throw a bit of light someone please.
"The UK's 16th National Poetry Day falls on Thursday 8 October 2009. This year's theme is Heroes and Heroines..."
...so as we are part of the UK :o ... yesterday, all over Tyrone people were talking in rhyme, verse and sonnet, on it....
Yes, Mexicans have no business on this thread. They had theirs on the 1st of October and not a peep about it.
Loved the war poets at school but admit I wouldn't spend too much time looking at poetry now. Great thread...hopefully it will stay a while.
What do youse think of this def jam poetry? Pretty powerful stuff
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GrNl6JCbOEw&feature=related (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GrNl6JCbOEw&feature=related)
No English Language poetry effort could omit this lad...
I WANDERED LONELY AS A CLOUD
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced, but they
Out-did the sparkling leaves in glee;
A poet could not be but gay,
In such a jocund company!
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
William Wordsworth
Patrick Kavanagh
On Raglan Road on an autumn day I met her first and knew
That her dark hair would weave a snare that I might one day rue;
I saw the danger, yet I walked along the enchanted way,
And I said, let grief be a fallen leaf at the dawning of the day.
On Grafton Street in November we tripped lightly along the ledge
Of the deep ravine where can be seen the worth of passion's pledge,
The Queen of Hearts still making tarts and I not making hay -
O I loved too much and by such and such is happiness thrown away.
I gave her gifts of the mind I gave her the secret sign that's known
To the artists who have known the true gods of sound and stone
And word and tint. I did not stint for I gave her poems to say.
With her own name there and her own dark hair like clouds over fields of May
On a quiet street where old ghosts meet I see her walking now
Away from me so hurriedly my reason must allow
That I had wooed not as I should a creature made of clay -
When the angel woos the clay he'd lose his wings at the dawn of day.
FROM DEWY DREAMS
From dewy dreams, my soul, arise,
From love's deep slumber and from death,
For lo! the trees are full of sighs
Whose leaves the morn admonisheth.
Eastward the gradual dawn prevails
Where softly-burning fires appear,
Making to tremble all those veils
Of grey and golden gossamer.
While sweetly, gently, secretly,
The flowery bells of morn are stirred
And the wise choirs of faery
Begin (innumerous!) to be heard.
James Joyce
Dunno who it is by , my Granny used to come out with it.
Oh woman of three cows a gra,
don't let your tongue thus rattle
don't be saucy,don't be stiff because you may have cattle
Ive seen and heres my hand to you,I only say what's true
there's many a one with twice your stock not half so proud as you
good luck to you ,don't scorn the poor,and don't be their despiser
for worldly wealth soon melts away and cheats the very miser
and death soon strips the proudest wreath from haughty human brow
then ask yourself should you be proud,oh woman of three cows.
I've always thought Heaney is over-hyped
Rudyard Kipling is the last word in poetry. I'll also give a notable mention to the guy that does the BBC's big sports events like poems for big six nations games etc:
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;
If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools;
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on";
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run -
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man my son!
Pablo Neruda
A Dog Has Died[/b]
Translated, from the Spanish, by Alfred Yankauer
My dog has died.
I buried him in the garden
next to a rusted old machine.
Some day I'll join him right there,
but now he's gone with his shaggy coat,
his bad manners and his cold nose,
and I, the materialist, who never believed
in any promised heaven in the sky
for any human being,
I believe in a heaven I'll never enter.
Yes, I believe in a heaven for all dogdom
where my dog waits for my arrival
waving his fan-like tail in friendship.
Ai, I'll not speak of sadness here on earth,
of having lost a companion
who was never servile.
His friendship for me, like that of a porcupine
withholding its authority,
was the friendship of a star, aloof,
with no more intimacy than was called for,
with no exaggerations:
he never climbed all over my clothes
filling me full of his hair or his mange,
he never rubbed up against my knee
like other dogs obsessed with sex.
No, my dog used to gaze at me,
paying me the attention I need,
the attention required
to make a vain person like me understand
that, being a dog, he was wasting time,
but, with those eyes so much purer than mine,
he'd keep on gazing at me
with a look that reserved for me alone
all his sweet and shaggy life,
always near me, never troubling me,
and asking nothing.
Ai, how many times have I envied his tail
as we walked together on the shores of the sea
in the lonely winter of Isla Negra
where the wintering birds filled the sky
and my hairy dog was jumping about
full of the voltage of the sea's movement:
my wandering dog, sniffing away
with his golden tail held high,
face to face with the ocean's spray.
Joyful, joyful, joyful,
as only dogs know how to be happy
with only the autonomy
of their shameless spirit.
There are no good-byes for my dog who has died,
and we don't now and never did lie to each other.
So now he's gone and I buried him,
and that's all there is to it.
Drunk as Drunk
Translated from the Spanish by Christopher Logue
Drunk as drunk on turpentine
From your open kisses,
Your wet body wedged
Between my wet body and the strake
Of our boat that is made of flowers,
Feasted, we guide it - our fingers
Like tallows adorned with yellow metal -
Over the sky's hot rim,
The day's last breath in our sails.
Pinned by the sun between solstice
And equinox, drowsy and tangled together
We drifted for months and woke
With the bitter taste of land on our lips,
Eyelids all sticky, and we longed for lime
And the sound of a rope
Lowering a bucket down its well. Then,
We came by night to the Fortunate Isles,
And lay like fish
Under the net of our kisses.
Fable of the Mermaid and the Drunks
All those men were there inside,
when she came in totally naked.
They had been drinking: they began to spit.
Newly come from the river, she knew nothing.
She was a mermaid who had lost her way.
The insults flowed down her gleaming flesh.
Obscenities drowned her golden breasts.
Not knowing tears, she did not weep tears.
Not knowing clothes, she did not have clothes.
They blackened her with burnt corks and cigarette stubs,
and rolled around laughing on the tavern floor.
She did not speak because she had no speech.
Her eyes were the colour of distant love,
her twin arms were made of white topaz.
Her lips moved, silent, in a coral light,
and suddenly she went out by that door.
Entering the river she was cleaned,
shining like a white stone in the rain,
and without looking back she swam again
swam towards emptiness, swam towards death.
Quote from: leenie on October 08, 2009, 11:07:35 PM
does any of ye know of good recitations.... and post them up!
Hated the recitations in the Scor.
If it wasn't this:
Lament for the Death of Eoghan Ruadh O'Neill
By Thomas Davis "DID they dare, did they dare, to slay Eoghan Ruadh O'Neill?"
"Yes, they slew with poison him they feared to meet with steel."
"May God wither up their hearts! May their blood cease to flow,
May they walk in living death, who poisoned Eoghan Ruadh."
"Though it break my heart to hear, say again the bitter words.
From Derry, against Cromwell, he marched to measure swords:
But the weapon of the Sassanach met him on his way.
And he died at Cloch Uachtar, upon St. Leonard's day.
"Wail, wail ye for the Mighty One. Wail, wail ye for the Dead,
Quench the hearth, and hold the breath—with ashes strew the head.
How tenderly we loved him. How deeply we deplore!
Holy Saviour! but to think we shall never see him more!
"Sagest in the council was he, kindest in the hall,
Sure we never won a battle—'twas Eoghan won them all.
Had he lived—had he lived—our dear country had been free:
But he's dead, but he's dead, and 'tis slaves we'll ever be.
"O'Farrell and Clanricarde, Preston and Red Hugh,
Audley and MacMahon—ye valiant, wise and true:
But—what are ye all to our darling who is gone?
The Rudder of our Ship was he, our Castle's corner stone.
"Wail, wail him through the Island! Weep, weep for our pride!
Would that on the battlefield our gallant chief had died!
Weep the Victor of Beinn Burb—weep him, young and old:
Weep for him, ye women—your beautiful lies cold!
"We thought you would not die—we were sure you would not go,
And leave us in our utmost need to Cromwell's cruel blow—
Sheep without a shepherd, when the snow shuts out the sky—
O! why did you leave us, Eoghan? Why did you die?
"Soft as woman's was your voice, O'Neill! bright was your eye,
O! why did you leave us, Eoghan? Why did you die?
Your troubles are all over, you're at rest with God on high,
But we're slaves, and we're orphans, Eoghan!—why did you die?"
It was this:
The Ballad of the t**ker's Son
by Sigerson CliffordI was in school 'twas the first of May and the day the t**ker came
With his wild wide eyes like a frightened hare's and his head with its thatch on flame:
We liked the length of his bare brown legs, the patches upon his clothes,
The grimy strength of his unwashed hands and the freckles about his nose.
The master polished his rimless specks and he stared at him hard and long
Then he stood him up on a shaky bench and he called on him for a song.
O the t**ker looked at our laughing lips then a voice like a timid bird's
Did the master's bidding and these were his singing words:
"My father was jailed for sheep-stealing and my mother is black as a witch.
My sister off-ran with the Sheridan clan and my brother's dead-drunk in a ditch.
O Tralee jail would kill the devil but Tralee jail won't kill my Da
I'll mend you a kettle for one and four and I'll bring home porter to me ma."
Then he bowed his head as the schoolhouse shook with the cheers of everyone
And the master made me share my desk with the raggedy t**ker's son.
O the days dragged on and he sat down there his brown eyes still afraid
He heard the scholars' drowsy hum and turning to me he said:
"What would I want with X and Y and I singing the crooked towns
Or showing a drunken farmer the making of silver crowns?
Or will Euclid teach me to light a fire of green twigs in the rain
Or how to twist a pheasant's neck so it will not cry in pain?
And what would I want with ancient verse or the meaning of Latin words
When all the poetry I'll ever need rings the throats of the singing birds?"
But he stayed at school and his flowering mind it grew swift as the swooping hawk:
Then there came a day when we said goodbye to the master who smelled of chalk.
He went to the life of the ribbon roads and the lore of the t**ker bands:
They chained my bones to an office stool and my soul to a clock's cold hands
But I often thought of my t**ker friend and I cursed my smirking luck
That didn't make me a t**ker man as I fought the road to Puck
With a red-haired wife and a piebald horse and a splendid caravan
Roving the roads with Cartys and Wards the O'Briens or the Coffey clan.
Now the years went by and the Troubles came, and I found myself again
I was back where I whittled the worn desks, with the mountains and the rain.
They put a trench coat on my back, placed in my hands a gun
And up in the hills with the fighting men I found the t**ker's son.
And there on the slopes of the Kerry hills our love grew still more strong
And we watched the wren on the yellow whin spill his thimbleful of song
Then came a truce and I shook his hand for a while our fighting done
But I never spoke one word again to the red-haired t**ker's son.
'Tis many a year since he went away and over the roads the vans
Wheel gaily to horse and to cattle fairs with the O'Brien's or the Coffey clans.
The t**ker's son should be back again with the roads and the life he knew
Ah but I took the life of my red-haired friend in nineteen and twenty-two.
Every feckin Scor, year after year, you could be guaranteed to hear one or other or both of those works. I have a slight aversion to both now.
It's time C2K was updated to keep you boys out of this site. It's distracting you from the important task of educating West Belfast.
Quote from: Tony Baloney on October 09, 2009, 02:38:10 PM
It's time C2K was updated to keep you boys out of this site. It's distracting you from the important task of educating West Belfast.
Three times they've tried and three times we have got it unblocked. In a gesture of goodwill, we also got owc unblocked.
Young boys doing a test at the minute. ONeill's are probably playing computer games. Or writing poetry.
Always been a fan of Blake, but more for his art than his poems.
The Garden of Love
I went to the Garden of Love,
And saw what I never had seen:
A Chapel was built in the midst,
Where I used to play on the green.
And the gates of this Chapel were shut,
And Thou shalt not' writ over the door;
So I turn'd to the Garden of Love,
That so many sweet flowers bore,
And I saw it was filled with graves,
And tomb-stones where flowers should be:
And Priests in black gowns were walking their rounds,
And binding with briars my joys and desires.
The Divine Image
To Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love
All pray in their distress;
And to these virtues of delight
Return their thankfulness.
For Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love
Is God, our father dear,
And Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love
Is Man, his child and care.
For Mercy has a human heart,
Pity a human face,
And Love, the human form divine,
And Peace, the human dress.
Then every man, of every clime,
That prays in his distress,
Prays to the human form divine,
Love, Mercy, Pity, Peace.
And all must love the human form,
In heathen, Turk, or Jew;
Where Mercy, Love, and Pity dwell
There God is dwelling too.
Me Da used to recite this one... (by Elizabeth Shane)
Wee Hughie
He's gone to school, wee Hughie,
An' him not four,
Sure I saw the fright was in him
When he left our door.
But he took a hand of Dinny and he took a hand of Dan
And with Joe's auld coat upon him, ach the poor wee man
I watched him to the corner o' our big turf stack,
An' the more his feet went forrit,
The more his head turned back.
I followed to the turnin'
An when they passed it by,
God help him he was cryin',
...An' maybe so was I. :'(
Quote from: longrunsthefox on October 09, 2009, 02:58:28 PM
Me Da used to recite this one... (by Elizabeth Shane)
Wee Hughie
He's gone to school, wee Hughie,
An' him not four,
Sure I saw the fright was in him
When he left our door.
But he took a hand of Dinny and he took a hand of Dan
And with Joe's auld coat upon him, ach the poor wee man
I watched him to the corner o' our big turf stack,
An' the more his feet went forrit,
The more his head turned back.
I followed to the turnin'
An when they passed it by,
God help him he was cryin',
...An' maybe so was I. :'(
My Ma would have recited it to us when we were growing up :)
My friend Billy
Had a ten foot willy,
He showed it to the girl next door.
She thought it was a snake
And hit it with a rake
And now its only 4 ft 4.
Quote from: no mo do yakamo on October 09, 2009, 07:15:46 PM
My friend Billy
Had a ten foot willy,
He showed it to the girl next door.
She thought it was a snake
And hit it with a rake
And now its only 4 ft 4.
Did your Daddy recite that one to you? :o
DEDICATION
by Patrick MacGill
From 1000 years of Irish Poetry I speak with a proud tongue of the people who were
And the people who are,
The worthy of Ardara, the Rosses and Inishkeel,
My kindred-
The people of the hills and the dark-haired passes
My neighbours on the lift of the brae,
In the lap of the valley.
To them Slainthé!
I speak of the old men,
The wrinkle-rutted,
Who dodder about foot-weary -
For their day is as the day that has been and is no more -
Who warm their feet by the fire,
And recall memories of the times that are gone;
Who kneel in the lamplight and pray
For the peace that has been theirs -
And who beat one dry-veined hand against another
Even in the sun-
For the coldness of death is on them.
I speak of the old women
Who danced to yesterday's fiddle
And dance no longer.
They sit in a quiet place and dream
And see visions
Of what is to come,
Of their issue,
Which has blossomed to manhood and womanhood -
And seeing thus
They are happy
For the day that was leaves no regrets,
And peace is theirs
And perfection.
I speak of the strong men
Who shoulder their burdens in the hot day,
Who stand on the market-place
And bargain in loud voices,
Showing their stock to the world.
Straight the glance of their eyes -
Broad-shouldered,
Supple.
Under their feet the holms blossom,
The harvest yields.
The their path is of prosperity.
I speak of the women,
Strong hipped, full-bosomed,
Who drive the cattle to graze at dawn,
Who milk the cows at dusk.
Grace in their homes,
And in the crowded ways
Modest and seemly -
Mother of children!
I speak of the children
Of the many townlands,
Blossoms of the Bogland,
Flowers of the Valley,
Who know not yesterday, nor to-morrow,
And are happy,
The pride of those who have begot them.
And thus it is,
Every and always,
In Ardara, the Rosses and Inishkeel -
Here, as elsewhere,
The Weak, the Strong, and the Blossoming -
And thus my kindred.
To them Slainthe!
A Visit From My Wife
by O'Donovan Rossa
A single glance, and that glance the first,
And her image was fixed in my mind and nursed;
And now it is woven with all my schemes,
And it rules the realm of all my dreams.
One of Heaven's best gifts in an earthly mould,
With a figure Appelles might paint of old -
All a maiden's charms with a matron's grace,
And the blossom and bloom off the peach in her face.
And the genius that flashes her bright black eye
Is the face of the sun in a clouded sky;
She has noble thoughts - she has noble aims
And these thoughts on her tongue are sparkling gems.
With a gifted mind and spirit meek
She would right the wronged and assist the weak;
She would scorn dangers to cheer the brave,
She would smite oppression and free the slave.
Yet a blighted life is my loved one's part,
And death cold shroud is around her heart,
For winds from the "clouds of fate" have blown
That force her to face the hard world alone.
And a daughter she of trampled land,
With its children exiled, prisoned, banned;
And she vowed her love to a lover whom
The tyrant had marked for a felon's doom.
And snatched from her side erre the honeymoon wanted:
In the dungeons of England he lies enchained;
And the bonds that bind him "for life" a slave
Are binding his love to his living grave.
He would sever the link of such hopeless love,
Were that sentence "for ever" decreed above.
For the pleasures don't pay for the pains of life -
To be living in death with a widowed wife.
A single glance, and that glance the first,
And her image was fixed in my mind and nursed,
And now she's the woof of my worldly schemes,
And she sits enthroned as the queen of my dream
:)
Keep it coming O'Neill. This is great stuff. My late father was a great one for poetry, as were many of his generation as at school it was usually thumped into them by the teachers at the national schools.
I got my hand on a wonderful CD "4000 works of Literature" at the PO here in Oz 7 years ago. It is full of the classics of ancient and modern literature though no Heaney unfortunately. Makes for interesting browsing.
Seo ceann as Gaeilge is maith liom go mór. Bhí seo scriofa ag fear as Ard an Rátha darbh ainm Pádraig MacSuibhne
Ag Foghlaim
Chuaigh sé ar bhunscoil
ag foghlaim mar chách:
gach samhradh ar saoire,
uibheacha um Cháisc
Chuaigh sé ar mhéanscoil
ina óganach chaol:
fuair sé eolas na leabhar
agus fios ar an tsaol.
Chuaigh sé ar ollscoil
le dúil ins an chéim:
fuair sé léargas ar dhaoine
agus fosta air féin.
That time of the year again.
Any additions?
this be the vers by the great philip larkin
This Be The Verse
They f**k you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.
But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.
Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.
Spring
by Gerard Manley Hopkins
Nothing is so beautiful as Spring—
When weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush ;
Thrush's eggs look little low heavens, and thrush
Through the echoing timber does so rinse and wring
The ear, it strikes like lightnings to hear him sing ;
The glassy peartree leaves and blooms, they brush
The descending blue ; that blue is all in a rush
With richness ; the racing lambs too have fair their fling.
What is all this juice and all this joy ?
A strain of the earth's sweet being in the beginning
In Eden garden.—Have, get, before it cloy,
Before it cloud, Christ, lord, and sour with sinning,
Innocent mind and Mayday in girl and boy,
Most, O maid's child, thy choice and worthy the winning.
The Ballad of William Bloat
Raymond Calvert
In a mean abode on the Skankill Road
Lived a man named William Bloat;
He had a wife, the curse of his life,
Who continually got his goat.
So one day at dawn, with her nightdress on
He slit her bloody throat.
With a razor gash he settled her hash
Never was crime so slick
But the drip drip drip on the pillowslip
Of her lifeblood made him sick.
And the knee-deep gore on the bedroom floor
Grew clotted and cold and thick.
And yet he was glad he had done what he had
When she lay there stiff and still
But a sudden awe of the angry law
Struck his heart with an icy chill.
So to finish the fun so well begun
He resolved himself to kill.
He took the sheet from the wife's coul' feet
And twisted it into a rope
And he hanged himself from the pantry shelf,
'Twas an easy end, let's hope.
In the face of death with his latest breath
He solemnly cursed the Pope.
But the strangest turn to the whole concern
Is only just beginning.
He went to Hell but his wife got well
And she's still alive and sinnin',
For the razor blade was German made
But the sheet was Belfast linen.
On yonder hill,
There sat a bucket.
Its not there now,
Cause someone tuck it.
Ruth sat on my motorbike,
directly to the back of me.
I went over a bump at 65,
and rode on Ruthlessly.
Quote from: redhugh on October 09, 2009, 12:54:48 PM
Dunno who it is by , my Granny used to come out with it.
Oh woman of three cows a gra,
don't let your tongue thus rattle
don't be saucy,don't be stiff because you may have cattle
Ive seen and heres my hand to you,I only say what's true
there's many a one with twice your stock not half so proud as you
good luck to you ,don't scorn the poor,and don't be their despiser
for worldly wealth soon melts away and cheats the very miser
and death soon strips the proudest wreath from haughty human brow
then ask yourself should you be proud,oh woman of three cows.
Excellent, rh.
New to me, so I had to Google it - turns out it was by James Clarence Mangan, more famous for "My Dark Rosaleen".
Have to say, it's much better than MDR, which is basically a wheen of verses with just one message - and hardly a profound one, at that.
http://www.irishcultureandcustoms.com/poetry/Mangan.html
Quote from: Olly on October 07, 2010, 12:43:25 PM
The Ballad of William Bloat
Raymond Calvert
In a mean abode on the Skankill Road
Lived a man named William Bloat;
He had a wife, the curse of his life,
Who continually got his goat.
So one day at dawn, with her nightdress on
He slit her bloody throat.
With a razor gash he settled her hash
Never was crime so slick
But the drip drip drip on the pillowslip
Of her lifeblood made him sick.
And the knee-deep gore on the bedroom floor
Grew clotted and cold and thick.
And yet he was glad he had done what he had
When she lay there stiff and still
But a sudden awe of the angry law
Struck his heart with an icy chill.
So to finish the fun so well begun
He resolved himself to kill.
He took the sheet from the wife's coul' feet
And twisted it into a rope
And he hanged himself from the pantry shelf,
'Twas an easy end, let's hope.
In the face of death with his latest breath
He solemnly cursed the Pope.
But the strangest turn to the whole concern
Is only just beginning.
He went to Hell but his wife got well
And she's still alive and sinnin',
For the razor blade was German made
But the sheet was Belfast linen.
Though not a McCooey myself, I've been known to offer that one (to music) when the drink is taken, but try as I might, I can never remember the second verse.
Anyhow, though I know I should appreciate the likes of Yeats, Heaney, Blake and Wordsworth etc, they are often too much "hard work" for me. I actually find myself more drawn to less high-brow poetry, such as above - particular favourites are WF Marshall and Robert Service.
I also like poets like Kipling (exceedingly good), who nicely fill the gap between doggerel and high-brow.
But the absolute Prince of Poets for me has to be Burns. He can "do profundity" with the best of them, yet never leaves his listener behind, struggling with metaphor, obtuseness or pretension.
"The best-laid schemes o' mice an 'men
Gang aft agley,
An'lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promis'd joy!"http://www.robertburns.org/works/75.shtml
more from larkin
DUBLINESQUE
Down stucco sidestreets,
Where light is pewter
And afternoon mist
Brings lights on in shops
Above race-guides and rosaries,
A funeral passes.
The hearse is ahead,
But after there follows
A troop of streetwalkers
In wide flowered hats,
Leg-of-mutton sleeves,
And ankle-length dresses.
There is an air of great friendliness,
As if they were honouring
One they were fond of;
Some caper a few steps,
Skirts held skilfully
(Someone claps time),
And of great sadness also.
As they wend away
A voice is heard singing
Of Kitty, or Katy,
As if the name meant once
All love, all beauty.
Coinningh do thalamh a anam liom
Coigil chugat gach tamhan-rud
Is ná bí mar ghiolla gan chaithear
I ndiaidh na gacarad nár fhóin duit
Minic a dhearcais ladhrán trá
Ar charraig fhliuch go huaigneach.
Mara bhfuair éadáil ón toinn
Ní bhfuair guth ina éagmais.
Níor thugais ód ríocht dhorcha
Caipín an tsonais ar do cheann,
Ach cuireadh cranna cosant
Go teann thar do cliabhán cláir.
Cranna caillte a cuireadh tharat
Tlú iarainn ós do chíonn,
Ball éadaigh d'athar taobh leat
Is bior sa tine thíos.
Luigh ar do chranna foirtil
I gcoinne mallmhuir is diaidthrá,
Coigil aithinne d'Aislinge
Scaradh lei is éag duit.
I shall not die because of you
O woman though you shame the swan,
They were foolish men you killed,
Do not think me a foolish man.
Why should I leave the world behind
For the soft hand, the dreaming eye,
The crimson lips, the breasts of snow -
Is it for these you'd have me die?
Why should I heed the fancy free,
The joyous air, the eye of blue,
The side like foam, the virgin neck?
I shall not die because of you.
The devil take the golden hair!
That maiden look, that voice so gay,
That delicate heel and pillared thigh
Only some foolish man would slay.
O woman though you shame the swan
A wise man taught me all he knew,
I know the crooked ways of love,
I shall not die because of you.
(Anonymous, translated by Frank O'Connor)
For what died the sons of Roisin?
an Ireland to be raped by its government
a people to be bled dry by its banks
a hope and a pride,,, gone.
today and tomorrow,,,gone. >:(
"The Curse"
(A poem made by a farmer of Fingal abusing his nag because it threw him into a deep dirty pool just in front of the girl he was going to court.)
You brindled beast through whom I've lost her!
Out of my sight! the devil take you!
And, 'pon my soul! this is no jest,
This year I'll rest not till I break you.
Satanic Ananias blast you!
Is that the way you learned to carry?
Your master in the mud to hurl
Before the girl he meant to marry.
The everlasting night fiend ride you!
My curse cling closer than your saddle!
Hell's ravens pick your eyes like eggs!
You scarecrow with your legs astraddle!
And it was only yesterday too
I gave the stable-boy a shilling
To stuff your belly full of hay
For fear you'd play this trick, you villain!
I gave you oats, you thankless devil!
And saved your life, you graceless fiend, you!
From ragged mane to scrubby tail
I combed and brushed and scraped and cleaned you.
You brute! the devil scorch and burn you!
You had a decent mare for mother,
And many a pound I've spent on hay
To feed you one day and another.
The best of reins, the finest saddle,
Good crupper and good pad together,
Stout hempen girth - for these I've paid,
And breastplate made of Spanish leather.
What's the excuse? What blindness caused it?
That bias in your indirections
That made a windmill of your legs
And lost for good my Meg's affections.
With my left spur I'll slash and stab you
And run it through the heart within you
And with the right I'll take great lumps
Out of your rumps until I skin you.
If ever again I go a-courting
Across your back - may Hellfire melt you! -
Then may I split my fork in twain
And lose the girl again as well too!
My favourite...
ag uirchill a' chreagain sea chodail me areir faoi bhron
is le heiri na maid'ne thainig ainnir fa mo dhein le poig
bhi griosghrua garth' aici 'gus loinhir ina ciabh mar or
's ba e fochshlainte 'n domhain a bheith 'g amharc ar a' rioghan oig
a fhiafhir charthanaigh, na caitear thusa 'nealta
ach eirigh go tapaidh agus aistrigh liom siar sa rod
go tir dheas na meala nach bhfuair galla inti reim go foill
's gheobhair aoibhneas ar hallai 'mo mhealladhsa le siamsa coeil
a rioghan is deise 'n tu helen fa'r treagh sloigh
no do na naoi mna deasa pharnassus thu 'bhi deanta gclo?
ce'n tir ins a chruinne 'n ar hoileadh tu, a realt gan cheo
le'r mian leat mo shamhrhailsa bheith 'cogarnaigh leat siar sa rod?
Fair play Art
Quote from: 5 Sams on October 07, 2010, 09:07:11 PM
My favourite...
ag uirchill a' chreagain sea chodail me areir faoi bhron
is le heiri na maid'ne thainig ainnir fa mo dhein le poig
bhi griosghrua garth' aici 'gus loinhir ina ciabh mar or
's ba e fochshlainte 'n domhain a bheith 'g amharc ar a' rioghan oig
a fhiafhir charthanaigh, na caitear thusa 'nealta
ach eirigh go tapaidh agus aistrigh liom siar sa rod
go tir dheas na meala nach bhfuair galla inti reim go foill
's gheobhair aoibhneas ar hallai 'mo mhealladhsa le siamsa coeil
a rioghan is deise 'n tu helen fa'r treagh sloigh
no do na naoi mna deasa pharnassus thu 'bhi deanta gclo?
ce'n tir ins a chruinne 'n ar hoileadh tu, a realt gan cheo
le'r mian leat mo shamhrhailsa bheith 'cogarnaigh leat siar sa rod?
Fair play Art
Many's the night spent wandering around Uirchill a chreagain as an angst teenager trying to find my way in life!!! I must go back as I still haven'y found it ;D
The following poem was among the possessions of an aged lady who died in the geriatric ward of a hospital. There is no information available as to her name, when she died or who she was.
"Crabbit Old Woman"
What do you see, what do you see?
Are you thinking, when you look at me-
A crabbit old woman, not very wise,
Uncertain of habit, with far-away eyes,
Who dribbles her food and makes no reply
When you say in a loud voice,
I do wish you'd try.
Who seems not to notice the things that you do
And forever is loosing a stocking or shoe.
Who, unresisting or not; lets you do as you will
With bathing and feeding the long day is fill.
Is that what you're thinking,
Is that what you see?
Then open your eyes,
nurse, you're looking at me.
I'll tell you who I am as I sit here so still!
As I rise at your bidding, as I eat at your will.
I'm a small child of 10 with a father and mother,
Brothers and sisters, who loved one another-
A young girl of 16 with wings on her feet,
Dreaming that soon now a lover she'll meet,
A bride soon at 20- my heart gives a leap,
Remembering the vows that I promised to keep.
At 25 now I have young of my own
Who need me to build a secure happy home;
A woman of 30, my young now grow fast,
Bound to each other with ties that should last;
At 40, my young sons have grown and are gone,
But my man's beside me to see I don't mourn;
At 50 once more babies play around my knee,
Again we know children, my loved one and me.
Dark days are upon me, my husband is dead,
I look at the future, I shudder with dread,
For my young are all rearing young of their own.
And I think of the years and the love that I've known;
I'm an old woman now and nature is cruel-
Tis her jest to make old age look like a fool.
The body is crumbled, grace and vigor depart,
There is now a stone where I once had a heart,
But inside this old carcass, a young girl still dwells,
And now and again my battered heart swells,
I remember the joy, I remember the pain,
And I'm loving and living life over again.
I think of the years all too few- gone too fast.
And accept the stark fact that nothing can last-
So open your eyes, nurse, open and see,
Not a crabbit old woman, look closer-
See Me.
Last night i held a little Hand
So tender and so sweet
I thought my Heart would break with joy
So loudly did it beat
No other Hand to mine
Can such excitement bring
Than the Hand i held, which was
Four Aces and a King
The Mourne Cadger
Felix Maginn was a cadger as his father had been before,
And he lived in a whitewashed cottage in the townland of Dunmore.
Just a room and a kitchen and an acre of grass for the mare,
And a lean-to for a moiley cow that he bought in Hilltown fair.
And Margaret kept a wheen o' hens that scratched fornenst the door,
And a flock of ducks on the mountain stream and a goat on the open moor.
At times she wrought at the flowering and she'd sit wi' the hoops in her hand,
And look down over Glasdrumman and across to the Isle of Man.
Felix travelled the roads of Down and the sound of his cart was known,
From away beyond Dromara to the loanen's of Killowen.
From the Laney and the Carrick to Rathfriland and Dromore,
With his 'Hern alive' from Annalong just caught the night before.
And he kept a skiff at Sherby and in summer down he'd go,
To jig for mackerel in the bay when the sun was sinking low.
But by dawn he'd be out on the roads again to Kilcoo and Attical,
Round by the 'S' of Spelga and home by Brackney Hall.
Felix has long since passed away, he died in twenty-one,
And his grave is marked with a headstone that was taken from Seefin.
And Margaret's gone - there's no one left, the house it stands no more,
Just an overgrown ruin on a hillside in Dunmor
THE DIAGONAL STEAM-TRAP, by Crawford Howard
Now they built a big ship down in Harland's -
She was made for to sell till the Turks -
And they called on the Yard's chief designer
To design all the engines and works.
Now finally the engines was ready
And they screwed in the very last part
An' yer man says 'Let's see how she runs, lads!'
An' bejasus! the thing wouldn't start!
So they pushed and they worked an' they footered
An' the engineers' faces got red
The designer he stood lookin' stupid
An' scratchin' the back o' his head.
But while they were fiddlin' and workin'
Up danders oul' Jimmie Dalzell
He had worked twenty years in the 'Island'
And ten in the 'aircraft' as well.
So he pushed and he worked and he muttered
Till he got himself through till the front
And he has a good look roun' the engine
An' he gives a few mutters and grunts,
And then he looks up at the gaffer
An' says he 'Mr Smith, d'ye know?
They've left out the Diagonal Steam Trap!
How the hell d'ye think it could go?'
Now the engineer eyed the designer
The designer he looks at the 'hat'
And they whispered the one to the other
'Diagonal Steam Trap? What's that?'
But the Gaffer, he wouldn't admit,
like To not knowin' what this was about,
So he says 'Right enough, we were stupid!
The Diagonal Steam Trap's left out!'
Now in the meantime oul' Jimmie had scarpered
- away down to throw in his boord -
And the Gaffer comes up and says 'Jimmy!
D'ye think we could have a wee word?'
Ye see that Diagonal Steam Trap?
I know it's left out- it's bad luck
But the engine shop's terrible busy
D'ye think ye could knock us one up?'
Now, oul' Jimmy was laughin' his scone off
He had made it all up for a gag
He seen what was stoppin' the engine –
The feed-pipe was blocked with a rag!
But he sticks the oul' hands in the pockets
An' he says' Aye, I'll give yez a han'!
I'll knock yez one up in the mornin'
An' the whole bloody thing will be grand!'
So oul' Jim starts to work the next morning
To make what he called a Steam Trap,
An oul' box an' a few bits of tubing
An ' a steam gauge stuck up on the top,
An' he welds it all on till the engine
And he says to the wonderin' mob,
As long as that gauge is at zero
The Steam Trap is doin' its job!'
Then he pulls the rag outa the feed pipe
An' he gives-the oul' engine a try
An ' bejasus! she goes like the clappers
An' oul' Jimmy remarks 'That's her nye!'
Now the ship was the fastest seen ever
So they sent her away till the Turks
But they toul' them 'That Steam Trap's a secret!
We're the only ones knows how it works!
But the Turks they could not keep their mouths shut
An' soon the whole story got roun'
An' the Russians got quite interested –
Them boys has their ears close till the groun '!
So they sent a spy dressed as a sailor
To take photies of Jimmy's Steam Trap
And they got them all back till the Kremlin
An' they stood round to look at the snaps.
Then the head spy says 'Mr Putin!
I'm damned if I see how that works!'
So they sent him straight off to Siberia
An' they bought the whole ship from the Turks!
When they found the Steam Trap was a 'cod', like,
They couldn't admit they'd been had
So they built a big factory in Moscow
To start makin' Steam Traps like mad!
Then Putin rings up Mr Obama
And he says 'Youse'uns thinks yez are great!
But wi' our big new Russian-made Steam Trap
Yez'll fInd that we've got yez all bate!'
Now oul Barack, he nearly went 'harpic'
So he thought he'd give Harland's a call
And he dialled the engine-shop number
And of course he got sweet bugger all!
But at last the call came through to Jimmy
In the midst of a terrible hush,
'There's a call for you here from the White House!'
Says oul' Jim, 'That's a shop in Portrush!'
There's a factory outside of Seattle
Where they're turnin' out Steam Traps like Hell
It employs twenty-five thousand workers
And the head of it - Jimmy Dalzell!
Couple more by Crawford Howard, IIRC
Dixon from Dungannon
Dixon from Dungannon was a man of great renown
I ever anything needed fixin about Dungannon town
If yer oul lawn mower was busted or yer biro wudnt write
Dixon of Dungannon was the man to put it right.
Big air show at Farnborough, new jet was on show
Prince Philip and the Queen and all was there, but the jet, she wudnt go
Then this big lad danders out, he fixed her at a stroke,
The he shouts up till the Queen, "they forgot about the choke".
Prince Philip turns round all amazed like to where the Queen was stannin'
Say she don't be daft there luv, thats Dixon from Dungannon.
The Queen calls down to Dixon, get yer oul wife Alice
And bring her round about half nine for a pastie at the palace.
The palace was in darkness when he brought oul Alice round
The Queen says would ye fix that fuse like, before we all sit down
So Dixon fixed the fuse and soon they were smackin their lips
As they eat the royal pastie and chewed their royal chips
Big volcano in Iceland, giving lots of trouble,
So they sent for Dixon and he got there at the double.
He says "where's this volcano, for I'm the man till beat her"
And then he got a lump of bubble gum, and stuffed it down the crater
He then stood back and wipes his hands and says he "now calm yer fears,
I reckon that will houl her for a couple of thousand years."
Right enough it held her, and now for miles around they come
To watch her blowing bubbles out of Dixons bubble gum
The yanks were all proud like of their rocket till the moon
And then they couldn't get her back, that made them change their tune
So mission control Houston sent word to President Nixon
Theres only one thing to do, we'll send a wire to Dixon
Reply came back from Dixon, yon oul rockets just a wreck
But if ye adjust yer carburetor lads, that'll get her back
So they fixed the carburetor and the motor...thats her now
so Dixon from Dungannon was the man that showed them how.
Poor oul Dixon died like last week and up to heaven he went
St Peter says ye cant come in like, you'll never be content
There's never nuthin wrong in here, theres nuthin needin fixin
And at that the devil wanders up and says, "hey, is your name Dixon"
For if it is come on with me, we will treat you very well
There's a few wee jobs needs doin, inside the gates of hell.
So Dixon says "Right I'm yer man" and off with the devil he goes
And what the devil happened then, the devil only knows
But, if things go wrong in hell you can bet until this very day
Dixon from Dungannon wont be very far away.
St Patrick and the snakes.
You've heard of the snakes in Australia
You've heard of the snakes in Japan,
You've heard of the rattler - that old Texas battler -
Whose bite can mean death to a man.
They've even got snakes in old England -
Nasty adders all yellow and black -
But in Erin's green isle we can say with a smile,
They're away - and they're not coming back!
Now years ago things was quite different -
There was serpents all over the place.
If ye climbed up a ladder ye might meet an adder
Or a cobra might lep at your face,
If ye went for a walk up the Shankill,
Or a dander along Sandy Row,
A flamin' great python would likely come writhin'
And take a lump outa yer toe!
Now there once was a guy called St. Patrick,
A preacher of fame and renown -
An' he hoisted his sails and came over from Wales
To convert all the heathens in Down,
And he hirpled about through the country
With a stick and a big pointy hat,
An' he kept a few sheep that he sold on the cheap,
But sure, there's no money in that!
He was preachin' a sermon in Comber
An' getting quite carried away
And he mentioned that Rome had once been his home
(But that was the wrong thing to say!)
For he felt a sharp pain in his cheek-bone
And he stuck up a hand 'till his bake
And the thing that had lit on his gub (an' had bit)
Was a wee Presbyterian snake!
Now the snake slithererd down from the pulpit
(Expectin' St. Patrick to die),
But yer man was no dozer - he lifted his crozier
An' he belted the snake in the eye,
And he says to the snake, "Listen, legless!
You'd better just take yerself aff!
If you think that that trick will work with St. Patrick
You must be far worser nor daft!"
So the snake slithered home in a temper
An' it gathered its mates all aroun'
An' it says, "Listen, mates! We'll get on wer skates,
I reckon it's time to leave town!
It's no fun when you bite a big fella
An' sit back and expect him to die,
An' he's so flamin' quick with thon big, crooked stick
That he hits ye a dig in the eye!
So a strange sight confronted St. Patrick
When he work up the very next day.
The snakes with long faces were all packin' their cases
And headin' for Donegal Quay.
Some got on cheap flights to Majorca
And some booked apartments in Spain.
They were all headin' out and there wasn't a doubt
That they weren't going to come back again.
So the reason the snakes left old Ireland
(An' this is no word of a lie),
They all went to places to bite people's faces
And be reasonably sure that they'd die.
An' the oul' snakes still caution their grandsons,
"For God's sake beware of St. Pat!
An' take yerselves aff if you see his big staff,
An' his cloak, an' his big pointy hat!"
Seamus Heaney:
I love the sound of the word 'turf', turf, turf, turf
Begin with 't' and ending in 'f', f, f, turf
The middle sound is 'ur', ur, ur, turf
Leaving a beatiful sound turf, turf, turf, turf
"I would love turf flovoured tea before you turf me out"
Said the man who lives by the bay, bay, bay, turf
Made of turf, turf, turf, turf
The bog contains the memory of the people whos repository knowledge
creating writers of the future.
Bog person:
I will arise and go now
I'll go to Moate in a boat,no
I'll plough with a cow,no
I'll... I'll play tennis in Ennis
WAIT! I'll....